SONNET FOR METEOROLOGICAL SPRING

This morning, the sly sun—

adroitly encroaching 

on those last, hardest, blackest 

strongholds of snow—

into passersby's hearts

must have also stole;

for nearly at once, all began 

to shed their coats,

and most seemed to laugh 

just a little as they did so, as if 

still wont to be tickled by his  

kisses on the breastbone,

despite a cruel winter's 

fanatical toll.

FINAL EXPLICATION

At last, 

you must ask

the beautiful question. 

Open the door and attend 

the adherence 

of the poem. 

Let sheer participation 

take the place 

of understanding. 

Imagine those words—

replacing 

your own. 

THE HISTORY OF AN IDEA

Before you were born, 

there were whispers—

there'll be whispers long 

after you're gone. Unreal things 

have a being all their own. 

But still you cannot yield.

Charioteers and chariots, 

fantastic winged horses, 

the real face of Plato—

are all, perhaps this 

very minute, wheeling fantastic

arcs across heaven.

You'll laugh, you'll sing, 

you'll write poems, 

but you know 

you can never yield 

every last part to this 

gorgeous nonsense. 

Each time you remember 

what doesn't exist 

you dip a little in your flight.

The turbulence

is not emotional. You agree

the horses of the gods are noble.

But until you plunge 

headfirst into the sea,

your disciplined heart

can never yield. 

And that's how you know

you aren't free. 

DOG STARE

When I have based myself, 

hideous and low, 

I have come to believe 

there's no word 

of unlove which she knows 

how to say.

But the thing I fear 

most is the sight 

of those eyes 

which lend me no humanity,

which shine 

not as mirrors, but as

flecks 

of fire shining;

their sheen 

is the brightness 

which clarifies 

without explanation—

the brilliance of 

reflecting nothing.

RENDEZVOUS

After all this time I've been 

waiting for you,

there must be something 

I forgot to do, but 

I cannot remember. 

Now, the birds say 

the season is new; 

finally 

the one long night is melting,

and the light 

has a temperate, 

compassionate weight.

Even on the darkened 

side of the street, that filthy 

clot of ice 

is dissipating—but I hate to see 

how it leaves 

in its wake 

a lot of debris 

from the previous December.

WHEN THE CITY IS CALM

When the city is calm, 

so is the truth.

And when the truth 

is apple-faced, 

snowsuited 

toddlers in the park,

crocus tips 

poked through dark frost-

stubbled mud, 

gutters thick with meltwater 

glinting in the sun—

the meaning 

is that word 

whose pronunciation is begun

in the act of observation

and ends in the

eyeless mind's access 

to perfection—dying winter 

on the page, as it is 

on the planet. This truth 

is the nature 

of composure itself: 

the situation plain, as it 

has to be.

PYRRHIC

Come 

March 1, 

among the weathered brown 

branch crooks 

caper browner-

still sparrows—

all beady black 

sun-eyed,

gum-

feathered, 

and spit-

firing 

their short hard sharp strong

tense lop-

sided 

victory songs.